


The Bronze Statue

by Listenerofshadows



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fantasy AU, Gen, Magic Hijinks, Nongraphic violence, Panic, Platonic Prinixety, cursing, death mention, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24111121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Listenerofshadows/pseuds/Listenerofshadows
Summary: This was stupid. This was so fucking stupid. Virgil was going to caught and it was going to be because he rammed into a bronze statue. A statue that had no right existing in the middle of the woods like that.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	1. An Unexpected Query

Standing in the clearing was a bronze statue. So life-like as if the gods themselves chiseled it. Every detail precise and exact. Lips stretched into a smile. Eyes that stared at some fixated point in the far off distance. Hair perfectly tousled. Clothing so fine and textured, it looked as soft as silk despite its bronze shine. A fine sword was in the statue’s outstretched hand. Vines grew across its chest like a sash, blooming with scarlet trumpets. One could stare at it for hours and still find details to admire and gawk at.

Virgil Farraway had no such time. With a satchel of stolen trinkets, he cursed as he tore through the woods.

“Stop! Thief!” His pursuers cried, rapidly gaining on him. The thick brush made it difficult for them to maneuver on horseback, but it was only a matter of time before they caught up.

“Yeah let me just stop and get myself executed, how about that?” Virgil thought to himself. For he had no breath to waste on sarcastic retorts. 

Rapidly, he was coming up to a patch of bright light; a clearing most likely. That was bad. He was soon to lose the only advantage he had. He swerved left, but found it still leading to the bright light. With no other way but onward, he sprinted out of the trees.

A horse whinnied in the distance and Virgil snuck a glance backwards. He could not catch a glimpse of his pursuers just yet. He turned his head to face forwards once more but it was already too late.

“Argh!” He cried, slamming into something solid and heavy. His head throbbed in agony, having seemed to receive the blunt of it. He was knocked flat on his back, his satchel tumbling onto the ground with him. Several trinkets fell out with a clatter. With bright lights dancing in his vision, he glanced up to see what caused his fall. 

Virgil stiffened in fear. At first, it looked to be a man pointing a sword at his throat. But then a moment passed and it became clear the man was still and an unnatural shade of bronze. Not to mention the odd sight of trumpet vines adorning the chest. A statue? But how or why? Who would sculpt one in the middle of the woods like this?

He had no time to ponder this. He needed to arise to his feet, to get up! With shaky hands, he stuffed the fallen trinkets back into his satchel. As he stood up, he found one distressing problem; his head was not the only casualty of the collision. There was also a twisted ankle to come out of it.

“Fuuuuck.” Virgil whispered, tears pricking the corners of his vision. He couldn’t run like this. Shouts and galloping of horse-shoes grew louder. Virgil glared up at the statue. This was stupid. This was so fucking stupid. He was going to caught and it was going to be because he rammed into a bronze statue. A statue that had no right existing in the middle of the woods like that.

He crawled behind the statue on wobbly hands and knees, ignoring the biting pain now spreading from his ankle. He pulled out his knife and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. What more could he do? 

It didn’t take long for them to enter the clearing, their horses snorting as they pulled them to a halt.

“We know you’re here, thief! Show yourself!”

Virgil did not move nor speak in their direction. He refused to give them that satisfaction. If they had to come and drag him out themselves, then so be it. He had his knife ready. He’d go down fighting if he had the last say in anything.

“I say! Thief? Is that any sort of way you should be addressing your prince and rightful heir to the throne?!” A grandiose voice asked.

‘What the fu–”

“DEMON!”

Virgil opened his eyes. He then tried opening his eyes again, to find they were indeed open. Moving at an incredible speed, delivering devastating blows was the bronze statue. Three fell at his sword, a fourth injured in the shoulder. The latter dropped their weapon, screaming as they raced out of the woods. Those left alive quickly followed suit on horseback.

The bronze statue turned his gaze upon Virgil. He strolled towards him, gleaming brightly in the setting sun. Virgil gripped his knife tightly, withholding a scream. But the bronze statue did not strike him. Instead the sword sunk deep into the earth as the bronze statue fell on his knees before Virgil.

“My prince, are you alright?” The bronze statue asked, eyes keen with concern.

Prince? Prince!? 

Virgil tried to speak but he found the words slip away from him alongside his consciousness. He fell faint right into the bronze statue’s arms.


	2. Twilight Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Virgil receives more questions than he does receive answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the warm reception for the first chapter! It really means a lot! I meant to post this last week but completely forgot WHOOPS. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: cursing, injuries, implied past corporal punishment, death mention, panic attack

When someone bonked their head on a random-ass bronze statue in the middle of the godsforsaken forest while running for their life with stolen goods and said-statue came to life, killed your pursuers and declared you a prince, it’d be only natural for them to assume it was all just a fucking bizarre dream.

Or at least this was what Virgil assumed. In the murky dusk of twilight, he jerked back to consciousness with a sharp inhale. A field. He laid in an empty field, in the tall thickets and wildflower blossoms. No bronze statue in sight. 

A dream then. Surely just a dream. Virgil must’ve evaded his pursuers and then promptly collapsed in a panic-induced coma. It seemed like a logical thing for him to do. He sat up, wincing as his head twinged in agony. The head injury was very much real. Perhaps he ran into a tree? Or a boulder? Either one sounded plausible. 

It didn’t stop anxiety from stretching across his chest like one big spider web.

He attempted to ignore it in favor of searching for his satchel. Squinting through the dim light, he saw it about a horse-length away next to a large stump. He rose to his feet when he’d forgotten one teensy-weensy detail; his ankle.

It was like stepping on a sharp needle. A needle that happened to be very large and more akin to a spear than of the sewing variety. He screamed because holy fuck it _hurt_.

“My prince!” The stump moved, its branches hovering over him trepidatiously. 

Virgil groaned, blinking back tears to look up to see it was not a talking sentient stump addressing him. Rather, it was a talking sentient bronze statue. A talking statue who was very capable with that sword of his. He skewed through Virgil’s pursuers like they were nothing. What if he did the same thing upon realizing Virgil wasn’t a prince? Maybe it’d be best to play along for now. Yeah he’d do that.

He opened his mouth, breath hitching, “I’m not a prince.”

Nailed it.

The statue’s head reared back a little and Virgil flinched from the motion. The statue just laughed, an unnatural coppery tinny sound to it.

“Oh, you must’ve hit your head harder than I thought,” The statue said, “We should return to the castle posthaste.”

Virgil’s heart pounded. “No!”

“No?” The statue frowned, “Whyever not?”

“No–you can’t make me–I’d rather die than go back.” Virgil shook, the words tumbling of their own volition. 

The statue spoke to him, but it was lost to the fog of panic swelling around him. He couldn’t go back. Not when he just escaped those grey oppressive walls. The only thing that awaited him was execution or worse yet, a living punishment of some kind. The king wouldn’t take well to a servant running off with some of his valuables, after all.

The half-faded half-fresh scars on his back flared up. Almost as painful as when he’d received them, if not worse. His head pulsated and his ankle throbbed to the same intensity as those phantom aches. Breathing felt impossible in this state. Short gasps of air that did nothing to bring oxygen to his lungs.

He bared his teeth as he tried to push away the panic. He couldn’t afford this moment of weakness. Not after everything he endured to get here. Not in front of a sentient bronze statue with delusions of grandeur. Who knows, perhaps the statue was really a figment of his imagination. 

Because the last thing he needed was a somehow sentient statue proclaiming him royalty. Stealing kingly possessions was one thing, but claiming you had a blood right to the throne? So, so much worse–he’d been a lowly servant, nothing more, nothing less.

A weighted hand rested upon his shoulder. Heavy enough to crush him but it’s touch delicate and light as a feather.

“My prince,” The statue said, his words like a lighthouse shining through a stormy rage of terror. Virgil snuck a glance up at him, struck by the somber expression worn by the statue. “I hope you can accept my most fervent apologies.”

“W-what for?” Virgil asked, almost laughing as a dizzy spell hit him.

“I’ve been in this forest for a long time,” The statue informed him, “I’d almost–well. I’d quite forgotten that an incorrigible cur now dwells in the castle and that the true King and Queen are no more. You must understand I did not mean to cause you undue fright.

“I know you do not know me, but I swore an oath to protect the royal family. I–I failed before. But I will not fail you this time.”

Virgil stared at the statue, wide-eyed and scarcely breathing. He referenced an event that took place a couple decades back. An event that was spoken in only hushed murmurs. One that Virgil only heard and held no memories, for he’d been only a babe when it occurred.

The current ruling King took hold of the throne by force, killing all the previous royal family and anyone devoted to them. Those who were left quickly learned to obey or else face similar fates.

The statue must think he was the son of the previous monarchs. Who’d also been just an infant when the coup happened. An infant, unlike Virgil, that had also suffered the same fate as his parents.

“How can you be sure that I am the prince?” Virgil swallowed, unsure how to tell the statue his beloved prince was dead. That he’d been too late to save him, from the king’s enforcers or the king himself for that matter.

“I know in my heart of hearts, you are. And I will hold no allegiance but to you.” A lightning bug fluttered past the statue, lighting the small grin on his face for a brief moment. The statue’s hand slipped from his shoulder, falling to clasp one of Virgil’s hands. He bowed down one knee, head lowered to the ground.

“I, Sir Roman of Redwood, Knight of the Realm, pledge my unbounding fealty to your royal highness, my prince and rightful heir to the throne of Xiety.” 

Virgil couldn’t breathe, his heart had leapt into his throat and now he was choking on it. At dawn, he’d been a cowardly servant. At midday, he’d been a terrified thief on the run. At twilight, he’d been declared a prince and sworn loyalty by a sentient bronze statue. It really was all too much for both his heart and soul to process.

He knew he was the first two things. He’d been in the King’s servitude since almost birth and he had indeed stolen possessions of the King. But a prince? No, no, no. He was the furthest thing from a prince. His hysteria at the mere mention of going to the castle should’ve clued the statue–or Roman he supposed–of this fact right then and there.

But instead, Roman seemed insistent he was a prince. Not of any of Virgil’s doing, but because he was a hopelessly naive moron. He was fooling himself into thinking Virgil was the prince. No doubt so that he reprove himself in his own eyes once more. 

Despite all of this, Virgil couldn’t find it within himself to deny him that. He was exhausted, injured and famished. He hadn’t eaten in two days aside from a few breadcrumbs he had to fight off a rat for. He was likely to die in the forest without Roman.

“I, Virgil of Farraway,” He faltered, swerving away from proclaiming himself royalty, “accept your fealty for as long as you see fit to aid me.”

“I shall serve you for long as I am able to, your royal highness.” The knightly statue said, pressing his metallic lips against Virgil’s hand for a brief kiss.

“Please,” The not-prince said, averting his gaze, “just call me Virgil.” 

“Of course, your hig–Virgil, if that is what you wish.” Roman said, dipping his head in reverence.

This shocked Virgil. He thought perhaps Roman would be more pushy on that. Did he readily adhere to his request because of the oath he took? Did that mean he’d do whatever Virgil demanded of him? 

Of course, he’d known what fealty entailed. He saw an enforcer swear fealty to the King once. He witnessed the enforcers carry out the King’s orders countless times. But being confided with unearned trust and loyalty like this? Guilt already began twisting his intestines into knots.

If Roman took notice of this internal turmoil, he did not say anything. Instead, he stood up, surveying the field. “It is late, and you must be tired. I will take watch and make sure nothing will harm you in your slumber.”

“What about you?” Virgil asked, “do you…do you need rest as well?”

“You need not worry about me!” Roman laughed, loud and boisterous, “In this ghastly form I do not sleep. I will be fine.”

“Okay.” Virgil whispered, lying in the soft grass once more. Roman stood a few paces away from him, a hand resting on his hilt. So still, like a statue. That almost emitted a weak laugh from Virgil. 

For what his appearance suggested, Roman did not seem to possess a silent countenance. From his bright booming voice to the way his hands painted a tapestry to accompany it. The comment about “this ghastly form” nearly confirmed he had not always been a bronze statue.

But then if that was the case, just how did Roman end up becoming one?


End file.
